


Looking

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Series: Regarding Hobbits [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Mirror Sex, Tol Eressëa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See tags</p><p>A.k.a. Subverting!Blushful Sam</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking

The pillow is stark white, hair scrawled wild across it in a dark and rambling tale of passion. The profile resting there turns leftward, clear enough despite the scribbled curls. Dark lashes lie uneasily above pink cheeks, mouth fallen open, kiss-reddened, panting lightly. Arms fold tight around the pillow, taut with anticipation. From there, from tense, wiry shoulders, a smooth stretch of skin flows upward—through the sinuous dip and curve of spine to the twin halves of a perfect bottom. Knees spread wide to show Sam the secret places; what hangs low and heavy beneath Frodo’s belly, leaking already, a slow drip onto the sheet below; the hidden place that Frodo offers to him. 

They have done this before, of course, but it still takes Sam by surprise, every time. He wants it—and Frodo wants it even more. He wiggles his hips now, and the twinned cheeks seem to smile up at Sam for his hesitation. 

‘If you don’t take me soon, Sam Gamgee,’ Frodo’s voice is muffled by the pillow—husky and heavy with need, ‘if you don’t take me soon, I vow I shall use the candle from that dratted stick!’

Sam is instantly, wildly, harder at the thought. He knows Frodo has done that, in the years between, for Frodo told him so. And he wants to see it one day—wants to see Frodo impale himself like that, wailing his pleasure while Sam observes for just as long as he can stand to watch and not to touch. But however much he may threaten it now, impatient as he is—face safely hidden in the pillow’s sure embrace—Sam knows he’ll not do. He never will, unless Sam cajoles him into it with hands and mouth, to lure him past his endearing shyness over any such display.

Another time for that. Today he wants to tup Frodo, just as Frodo wants Sam inside him— _now_.

He looks down, wondering as ever how he can possibly fit where Frodo is urging him to enter. He gives a wild, brief thought to unlikely comparisons—the fat red stick of sealing wax into an eyelet, perhaps—and grins even as he dismisses so ridiculous a notion. He will fit. He always has, because Frodo opens for him as a flower to the sun. 

‘Sam…’ Frodo says, stretching the name over several coaxing syllables that fracture as they fall. 

Sam gathers himself back to the present and lifts one oily finger, stroking carefully down the tempting cleft, circling a momentary tease before he pushes inward, surprised as ever by the slippery-smooth heat. With a sound that’s purely pleasure, Frodo angles up into his touch, and the finger is engulfed completely.

‘M-m-move it!’ Frodo begs, a breathless stutter, and Sam crooks it to a gentle stroke. _‘Ohhhh!’_ Sam pulls back a little, but Frodo clamps tight around him, holding him there, keeping him within. ‘Again!’ he says. ‘Again, Sam!’ 

Sam obliges, smoothing over the unseen bump that brings such ecstasy to his Frodo, such joy to himself in the giving. Frodo writhes around the finger, panting and moaning in time with Sam’s caresses. 

‘More, now?’ he asks.

Frodo’s ‘Yes!’ chokes urgently in his throat, and Sam withdraws momentarily, not caring for the oil that drips in the haste of his return. The clasp is snug once more around these two slicked fingers, and Sam works them steadily in and out. Frodo pushes back, pushing onto them, breathing, ‘Sam, oh, Sam,’ over and again, as Sam twists and strokes to the rhythm set by creamy hips. Sam isn’t sure how much longer he can wait, now. The sight of Frodo pleasuring himself like this is almost too much to be borne. He knows he’s never been harder, never more swollen with desire, and Frodo must therefore be truly ready for him.

‘You, Sam!’ Frodo commands. Sam knows better than to argue, but he’ll not move to take until he’s sure. A third finger cuts short complaint and Frodo writhes frantically on that deliciously tripled point of contact. 

_Now Sam!_ Not Frodo, this, but Sam himself—knowing it is time at last. He spreads more oil, spilling messily again but he doesn’t— _cannot_ —care right now. His own touch is close to torture, but somehow he crams the cork back in and stuffs the bottle safe beneath the pillows. They’ll likely need it again, but he’s not really thinking that right now. He’s barely thinking at all as he steadies himself—slippery, eager, desperate—for that first, shockingly wonderful push into the heat of his Frodo’s body. 

He needs all a gardener’s patience to pause movement just within, listening for caught breath to be released, waiting for the clench to ease, to draw him inward.

Frodo pushes back now as Sam advances bit by bit, till Sam feels smooth warmth beneath him, Frodo’s back cool to his chest, Frodo’s bottom snug against him, settled in the cradle of Sam’s hips. 

Then Frodo shoves down on the pillow as Sam gathers him up into his arms. He rises to his knees in Sam’s embrace, and both of them gasp at how deep Sam is buried now.

Arms wrapped snugly round him, Sam shuffles them with care across the bed. It isn’t easy doing this, with Frodo’s clench so tight about him as they move. Twice he has to stop and hold onto Frodo as he shakes through the accidental, inevitable brush to that one spot inside, but at last they face the looking glass that fronts the wardrobe door.

Reflection floods the room with honeyed light, thickly mellowed by the westernmost sun. And Frodo kneels before him, there in the glass, bare skin warmed to molten marble—held fast before Sam and by him, coupled close as two hobbits ever were or may be. A display quite beautifully blatant on a bed that’s rumpled far beyond repair—for never any eyes but theirs to see. 

It makes Frodo preposterously shy, Sam knows, to see himself this way—though he still doesn’t understand why it would. He’s always thought _he’d_ be the one who’d blush to see them joined this way. His colour is high, of course, but risen only to meet the want and need in him. He isn’t blushing for this, the way Frodo is—the deep rose flush Sam loves to see on him, flooding steadily downward to veil his cheeks, the long column of his neck, his chest; flowing out across his belly and darkening there to the richest red of all, proudly out-thrust, framed rigid within the warm brown clutch of Sam’s hands at his hips. 

Frodo’s lashes quickly droop, as if wishing to hide the sight. He even turns his head aside into Sam’s neck, where the fall of hair may shield his gaze. 

But Sam knows he’s watching, nonetheless. When he looks hard in the glass he definitely catches the slivered glimpse of blue. Eagerly, it follows the slide of fingers over pinkened skin, misted damp already by desire. He strokes lightly with one hand now, one finger sliding in the crease where thigh meets body, Sam relishing the shiver that thrills through Frodo into him. It sends him thrusting forward, makes Frodo’s mouth gape helpless in response: blush-red, swollen, panting hard. Sam trails his fingers down then, pressing just in front of where he disappears into Frodo and for a single moment Frodo’s eyes fly wide. He shudders so hard, Sam must use both hands again just to hold him steady.

‘Please, Sam!’ he gasps, and he’s drawn so tight already, Sam can tell, can _see_ that he’ll not last much longer. He knows Frodo’s asking for his hand, roughly calloused, tight around him, for Sam’s knowing touch to bring him, merciless and kind, to where he needs to be. Instead, Sam reaches for Frodo’s own hand that dangles aside, grasping at air, wanting this but unable to accept until Sam makes it his gift, guiding helpless fingers to a firm grip. 

Frodo’s eyes are fully closed once more, but his other hand rises to complete the hold.

Sam watches him in the glass: not moving, his face strained taut with need, but not moving at all. He blows unruly strands of hair from the pink shell of Frodo’s ear and murmurs, thickly now, ‘That’s it, Frodo, that’s good, tight and good. Move them now, Frodo, move your hands,’ and Frodo does, working himself while Sam watches, seeing them both there:

Frodo, held tight against him, their connection clear. 

Frodo’s thighs splayed taut from flagrant need; face and body flushed with the insistent want drawing closer by the second as he works himself, eyes still fast shut. 

Sam, just visible behind him, chin hooked firm over one pale shoulder, hands spread vigilant and wide. 

One lies high on Frodo’s chest, a nipple lightly caught betwixt flattened fingers that pluck and close—the only way Sam can grant them both that exquisite connection while he strains to keep them kneeling high, here before the looking glass. 

The other splays, hard and brown, over the skin at Frodo’s hip, and the contrast is all one with the vision that winds Sam ever tighter in desire.

Frodo jerks and writhes within his grasp, mouth agape and panting fiercely, and Sam tells him again, ‘Like that, my Frodo, like that,’ and—honest now—he urges, ‘for me, Frodo, just for me!’

Frodo’s hands twist and pull and then—Sam feels it in him before he sees—he is rigid in Sam’s arms. His eyes flash open, their blue burning arousal deep into Sam where they meet in the glass. He gasps, chokes out, _‘Sam!’_ and shatters at last into Sam’s loving hold. 

Sam watches his pleasure, keeping him close, gentling him through it, kissing his neck, his shoulder, the curve of his ear. The rippled clench of Frodo tight around him is almost more than he can bear, and only by immersing himself in the sight of Frodo, wild and beautiful this way, can he wait until Frodo is with him again—panting still, chest heaving but turning his head to kiss Sam briefly, knowing what Sam needs of him right now. Back with him enough for Sam to dare his own movement—the thrusting he desperately needs—Frodo reaches hands behind them both. Fingers sunk fast in Sam’s broad hips, he will keep their balance here, so Sam’s desire can finally break free—rapid, hard and thankful. 

Sam’s eyes fall shut against the wrenching frenzy that drives him onward, and it is Frodo’s turn to watch them in the glass. With his face squeezed up so tight, Sam can only _feel_ the clear blue fire that urges him to find his own release. 

It takes him, as always, so much sooner than he means or wants it to. 

Too soon by far. 

But there is no longer any fighting what— _whom_ —he has seen, and had, and loved.

 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Original post Christmas 2012


End file.
